


Leather Pants

by Mozart (BlondeMelancholic)



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: Apocalypse (2016) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Imported, Leather Trousers, Light Voyeurism, Post-Apocalypse, Spoilers, ehehehe, god i can't believe that's a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 00:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7131329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlondeMelancholic/pseuds/Mozart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How does he run in them? It's a question that you don't entertain, because you're busy with other fun activities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leather Pants

**Author's Note:**

> srry i'm just ,,, jfc

Needless to say, there are numerous downsides to breaking one’s leg: the pain, the constant discomfort, the lack of mobility, the forced dependence on others. It would be reasonable to assume that there are no upsides to such a thing, but Peter Maximoff had one: namely, you had been taking care of him, in more ways than one. 

It wasn’t every day that he got his leg broken while saving the world, and as such you had cried and agonized and then babied him profusely when you had the chance. But to your relief, you found that he healed fairly normally for someone who had been injured by a godlike mutant, and so you did not shy away from dispensing hospitality in his most favorite form, something you were certain he appreciated.

You enjoyed a few languid thoughts about that subject as you watched him get dressed, lying across his bed like some sort of voyeuristic monument. Far more elegant than how you’d been seconds before, satiating your post-coital appetite by stuffing your face with the Twinkies that he had lying around. You told him, “I’m glad you’re out of that cast. You look best when you’re symmetrical.”

“Don’t get to hear that one every day.” But it was also something he rarely heard in his mom's basement, so he seemed to appreciate it. “You’ve got a poetic way with words, don’t you?”

He kept glancing at you, as if to make sure you were still there. Sure enough, you remained, half-dressed and with a lazy smile. Wait – were you half-dressed, or half-undressed? It was like a wonderful alternative to the glass-half-full idea. 

Meanwhile, you were watching him, too. Except your gaze was pointed south, staring at him with rapture as he fit himself into leather pants. God, he looked good; had his mother been trapping him in her basement to keep all of his suitors away? You fumbled around on his nightstand for a quarter, and when he wasn’t looking at you, you threw it right where you had been looking.

But he was looking in the mirror, and nimbly he dodged to the side, so quick you couldn’t even see it. He made a face at you and complained, “Hey! Don’t start abusing me, kid. I did help save the world, and all. Did you? No, I don’t think so. But I did, you know. Broke my leg, saving the world.”

“Did you? Why, this is news to me. I’ve certainly never heard of it, especially from you, eight hundred times.” You looked away innocently. “I was just trying to test something out, that’s all. Good to see you can move a little faster again. I wonder what else you can do.”

With Peter Maximoff, most things happened in the blink of an eye. This time, right as your eyes shut, you felt a warm pressure against your mouth and a brief tug at your hair; but by the time they flew open again, he was standing across from you again, though not without a smug and self-satisfied smirk.

“Oh, you!” You slapped a hand over your mouth. “God, that was oddly romantic. I think you’d better go back to your old self now.”

His grin grew wider, and he shot you with a finger gun, to drive home the point that you were constantly bested by a little punk. “Trying to act like you didn’t like it doesn’t make up for how red you’re getting, ya know.”

“You’re a lewd son of a bitch,” you snapped hastily, as if you hadn’t been ogling him just moments before. When he turned away from you again, you searched underneath his bed for other missiles to hit him with, but came up only with a slew of records that could at best be used as Frisbees. “Okay, well, we both are.”

He scoffed, amused. “ _You’re_ a lewd son of a bitch?”

“Well, women can be anything they want these days, can’t they?” You went quiet again as your gaze dropped back down to his ass. “I mean, obviously you can still move pretty fast. But I’m wondering if you’ve got a ways to go yet, until you’re back to your usual form.”

“Oh, really? And what do you mean by that?”

He moved closer to you, which was his fatal mistake. The moment it was within reach, you reached out with a lightning-quick motion and slapped his ass so hard that it seemed like the sound of your hand meeting the leather of his pants could be heard all the way down the hall. 

Satisfied beyond measure, you fell back against his bed, sighing. “I can’t believe you have nothing to say to that, Peter. I mean, that’s a first, generally.”

He was giving you that look again, the look when he made sure that you were still real and still there. But you also noticed that your actions had the appropriate effect on him, and you could finally feel victorious. It was your turn for a smug and self-satisfied grin, and you rolled over to face the wall.

“Trying to act like you didn’t like it,” you reminded him, in case he was aiming to complain about his pervert girlfriend, “doesn’t make up for how red you’re getting.”


End file.
